My Misspent Youth: Essays Book

UGH. this book makes me so glad that i left new york. why? because i'd have to deal with people like meghan daum all fucking day. people who feel the need to write 1000+ word essays on things like their hatred of carpet (although i know you carpet-haters like to pontificate on that subject), people who think that their neurotic/workaholic tendencies are funny and interesting as opposed to boring and draining, people who make hardly any money yet rent apartments in fancy neighborhoods and then write lengthy essays about how much debt they're in.
i had high hopes for this book, as i really loved daum's novel, and i'd read the title essay on the internet and thought it was pretty engaging. but this book just drove me nuts. yet, i couldn't stop reading it. from the introduction where she spelled out the fact that every essay has a point (gasp! really?) just in case we, the readers, are too dumb to figure out that remarkably obvious fact, i knew i was in for a lousy experience. yet i kept at it, partially because daum is not an untalented writer. far from it. she keeps you interested and she can turn a good phrase.
the essay that horrified and annoyed me the most was the last one, where a mediocre friend of meghan's drops dead and she feels no grief, yet pretends to for the sake of his parents. while being completely sweet to their faces, she writes an essay blaming the parents for their son's death (he died of a rare, fatal virus) because they spoiled him too much. ?!?!?!! i feel like a) reading that essay, if they ever did, must have been the most hurtful thing ever for these grieving parents. the entire point of making that statement seems to be for shock value, but the shock it causes is not even that interesting. have i, personally, thought (or even said) uncharitable things about dead people? of course. have i said it within earshot of people who do actually care that they're dead? absolutely not. there's no purpose to that; it doesn't change anything and just makes the staggering weight of grief that much more unbearable for those who are feeling it. yet daum seems to have no problem with publishing this for the entire world to see.
all in all, this book completely lacked anything of real interest. it's well-planned and well-written but there is no joy involved, and no real misery either, just endless petty complaints of someone who does not realize how privileged they are.